A GARDEN OF ETERNAL SUMMER

One of the great names of the pre-world war one period is Henri Rousseau, a sadly not entirely appreciated artist whose haunting jungly scenes beguile with depth, colour, and charm. Picasso greatly admired him. Reproductions of his paintings often grace the study rooms and smoking dens of gay young men studying real subjects at university.
Not business or marketing majors. Rarely accountants.

One painting, The Hungry Lion Throws Itself on the Antelope, done in 1905, made quite an impression on me in my early teens. Haunting, brutal, refined. Nice. There are five animals in the painting: the diner, the dinner, an observing feline, and two disinterested birds. The gras forms an elegant lacy webbing at the bottom of the frame. The lion looks ecstatic, a very happy cat.

A repro was on the wall of the playroom. I had taken it entirely for granted, a great blob of restful colours that positively influenced one's mood.

It showed up briefly in a dream last night as part of the landscape, which changed by the minute. When I awoke, the animals were gone, but some of the colours remained.
Middle distance vision in the disfocussed semi-conscious eye.

The wet green foliage of the mind.

We had a large garden when I was growing up. I rather miss it, even though because of my mother's lumbago I was the one tasked with planting, pruning, and weeding. Beyond the old apple tree at the end of the courtyard were grass, shrubbery, bulb plantings in a disorganized riot of Spring colour. Shrubs, depth, dark greens. Plus forsythia. When in bloom, brilliant.

A great place to plonk a rattan chair, open a book, and smoke one's pipe.
The cats frequently joined me there.
Nice.



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